


Castor and Pollux

by isamariposa



Series: Keepsakes from HMS Clio [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Brothels, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Falling In Love, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intimacy, Jealousy, M/M, Meet-Cute, Multi, Open Relationships, Prostitution, Rimming, Roughhousing, Sex Toys, Sharing a Bed, unresolved implied Crozier/Fitzjames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: James Fitzjames and Henry Le Vesconte have known each other for years. Sometimes sailing unexplored seas is easier than navigating their complex relationship.Spanning from the day they met to their last days together, in non-chronological order.Has a fix-it sequel now!
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: Keepsakes from HMS Clio [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712725
Comments: 73
Kudos: 84
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Toes (1848)

**Author's Note:**

> I rarely post WIPs but here we go. I'm thinking this may have about 6 chapters and they might be reshuffled at the end. Rating might change and tags will be added. Will keep present tense for Terror expedition timeline and past tense for China, India, Middle East etc.
> 
> Title comes from, of course, Greco-Roman heroes Castor and Pollux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the million names but Le Vesconte = Dundy = Henry = Harry.
> 
> Only fluff in this chapter.
> 
> Terrorbingo: cut off from us

* * *

James captained a ship before, of course - but never like this. 

The Clio, with all her sails unfurled, roved on gaily on the warm waters of the Persian Gulf. Dundy spent his days on deck, watching the shores with a spyglass, hardly ever wearing a shirt and commanding the men with irresistible vigour. Everyone aboard was in the highest of spirits under perpetually blue skies, and in one of the innumerable stops a sailor acquired a musical instrument that resembled a guitar, making the subsequent evenings merrier and cheerful.

The Erebus, in contrast, feels like a tomb - a monstrous, dark maze not unlike the pyramids where the Egyptians buried their Pharaohs. 

Ships are not made to be this static, to be this silent. 

James tries to encourage the men with gentle firmness, to keep discipline without being a tyrant, but he sees the fear in their eyes. Those from The Terror, instead of increasing camaraderie now that they are all under one sail, come with demons of their own. They look relieved to be out of Crozier's rule, and James is certain the latest flogging was very present in their minds when they volunteered to abandon their ship and make Erebus their new home. He does not want to give them the impression of being more lenient than Crozier, but he also cannot help going to great lengths to make them feel at ease and welcome - it's petty of him, but he is rather pleased to have a chance to demonstrate that he is an infinitely greater leader than him. 

But he is lacking officers to rein them in - out of theirs only Dundy remains, and while he's easily worth two lieutenants on his own, he cannot oversee all. They're exhausted, both of them, putting out fires and organising rations and keeping morale high. James feels like he's aged ten years in one week, and he tries to push far from his mind the anguished thought that not four years ago they were both warmer, in higher spirits, and competent in running a ship of their own. Free, wild. Happy. 

Now that Dundy is gravely injured, James ought to request to be sent an officer from The Terror to help him with management, but who? Little, who is clearly Crozier's creature, and who isn't above lying for him? The man cannot be trusted. Irving, whose command over the men relies on his own nervous nature rather than on leadership? He's so dull James cannot imagine sitting through daily meetings with him. Hodgson, that's who. He ought to send for Hodgson. He's a good, sensible fellow; they met him sometime during the war in China. Back when they sailed off, James resented that he was assigned to Terror and not Erebus, but it was either him or Dundy - and he'd have never made it this far with his sanity intact without Henry on the same ship. ( _Is_ his sanity intact, he wonders in passing, but considering the alternative is Crozier's melancholia, James is reasonably certain that he's sound of mind.)

With that pressing concern out of his mind for the moment, James continues his round for the night with far more ease. He chats with the mates, encourages those on watch, and sees to that the overworked cooks are getting some rest. Leaving the ship in uneasy silence behind him, then, he makes his way to Le Vesconte's cabin. The door slides open without a sound, and James closes it behind himself just as quietly. On the berth, Henry is lying on his side, wide awake, but he makes no movement when his gaze, glossy and distant, acknowledges his presence.

"Hullo there," James says.

His voice came out a little strangled at seeing him so diminished, so helpless: Henry isn't made for beds this small, his long limbs bent unnaturally. After all these years, James knows he prefers sleeping on his back, when there is room to spare. There hasn't been for years. Only an uncertain smile answers his greeting, so he takes the cabin chair and places it next to the berth. Dundy perks up a little, though he himself makes no move to sit.

"Doctor Stanley told me what happened," James insists. "My poor old Henry. I'm dreadfully sorry about your toes." 

"S my own fault," Dundy slurs, opening his eyes wide as if it were an effort to speak. "Should've come inside earlier."

"How many did you lose?"

"Want to see?"

He pulls the covers back without waiting for his affirmative. James isn't particularly keen to see, but a part of him retains the same boyish, vaguely disgusting curiosity that led him to stare at William's bleeding gums whenever he lost a tooth in their childhood. He leans closer to inspect the bloodied foot. Two toes are missing - the smaller ones. Charred little stumps remain in their place. Shouldn't they have put a dressing on it? James pokes the sole of the other foot, both to comfort and to tickle Dundy, who curls it away with just an embryo of a smile.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks.

"Abominably," Henry says, sounding rather despondent.

"Did they give you nothing?"

"Morphine. Don't think it's working."

"I think it works less well in those who have used opium in the past. Like you."

" _And_ you," Dundy answers, and this time he does smile widely.

James pulls the covers on him and leans closer to his face. Yes, Henry's pupils are dilated, the telltale sign of opiates. But he isn't wrong: they might have indulged a little too much during their downtime in China, in between battles where there was little to do but get intoxicated or fuck, preferably at the same time. And opium, well, it was stronger than beer, and more readily available. To think they sailed to the ends of the world to wage war for it! And what a relief to find a like-minded mate in that foreign land, whose priorities aligned so closely to his - though in all fairness Dundy might be more inclined to prefer dining to drinking; fucking, nevertheless, is a clear first. That was the closest they've ever been to getting caught, in fact: the ship's steward found them in an unspeakable opium den in the wee hours of the morning, tangled together in the same bed and in their underclothes, but in too much of a drugged stupor for it to be considered a compromising position. To this day James still doesn't know how they weren't at least flogged for it.

That's a happy memory. He smiles.

"We've been through hell and back together, haven't we, Dundy?" he muses.

"No. _This_ is hell, and there will be no going back. It was never hell before. It was heaven, but we didn't know it."

"Hush," James says, worried with this sudden agitation. 

So Dundy also remembers how much happier they used to be. James never noticed their luck back then; he was always unsatisfied, longing for more, more, more. If only he'd enjoyed those moments fully back then.

"No, I mean it," Henry goes on. "We will have to walk, won't we? I've looked at the maps. It's hundreds of miles. And what if I can never walk again?"

"Doctor Stanley says you'll retain full use of your foot."

"Your Doctor Stanley should've been a butcher rather than a surgeon. Chop, chop, cut 'em off, no questions asked. He didn't even look at me. I trust nothing that man says."

How very unlike Dundy, this anger, this shadow, this pessimism. Troubled, James reaches for one of his hands and holds it firmly.

"Henry," he says, "if you can't walk, I'll carry you myself if needed be. But you will walk. I have no doubt about it. You'll be back on your feet tomorrow."

James cannot consider the alternative. He brings the hand he's holding to his lips to kiss it on the knuckles. Henry stares at the gesture, with the dreamlike, placid contentment that comes with opioids. 

"I've the prettiest little nurse in the Arctic," he says. 

His mood seems easily changeable, thank the heavens. James lets out a short laugh, almost trembling with relief.

"You make me blush, sir," he answers in a falsetto, continuing the joke.

"Makes you even prettier. Wish I were healthier to pay you my respects."

"Well, there's always tomorrow." James lets go of his hand and pulls off his boots before standing. "Make room. This devoted nurse is keeping you warm tonight."

Henry grins at him with earnest, childlike delight.

"Full service to the room," he says, raising an eyebrow. "I'd have lost more toes earlier, if I'd known."

"I'd rather you didn't," James says, and climbs on the berth with him.

There isn't much room at all for one man, let alone for two. But they somehow manage to fit - they've slept in far worse conditions during their long acquaintance. There's a brief tangle of blankets and limbs, but James manages to lie on his side with Dundy in his arms, facing him, their legs intertwined. It occurs to him this might be easier if Henry turned to face the wall, but there's some comfort in lying so close together - in having his shortened, warm breath against his neck.

James should be the one comforting him, shouldn't he. Not the other way 'round. 

And yet he can't help pulling Dundy closer with a sigh of relief. It's as pleasant as sliding into a warm bath after a long day, bringing instant relief for all the hardships weighing on him. Henry too lets out a sigh, and he closes his eyes.

"You smell good, Jamie," he mumbles.

"I can't imagine what I smell like after spending so much time inside a cramped ship." But James cannot help smiling. "You haven't called me Jamie in years."

Dundy opens his eyes slowly. "Well, we've not shared a bed in years."

There's a hint of accusation both in his tone and in his gaze that brings a wave of regret over James. 

"That is no doing of mine," he says, defensive.

"I know it isn't," Henry says, and closes his eyes again.

It's true, they've not slept in the same bed since London. They've fucked on occasion, of course, all throughout this blasted expedition - but with one notable exception, always quickly, always discreetly, never having time for those long, inane conversations they used to have until dawn or until one of them fell asleep. Good God, he misses that. He misses all of it. James reaches up to run his fingers through Dundy's hair, brushing it out of his face. It's damp, either from sweat or from the snow that melted in it, earlier.

"When _did_ you grow so grey, Harry?" he asks, a little bemused as he threads the silvery strands between his fingers.

"Ha. It started the day I met you, I think. I had two grey hairs the next morning."

"You should be thanking me, then. It suits you. It gives you, hmm, a certain character, a _je ne sais quoi_..."

"Fuck you," Dundy says, and laughs.

James laughs with him, pulling him even closer against him and enjoying the rumbling of his laughter against him. It truly is unforgivable that they've not done this more. Moved by an instinct so natural he doesn't even think to question it, James presses a kiss to Henry's lips - at first, just a little peck, but he grows carried away enough to let it become more heartfelt, more insistent. That is, until he realises Dundy is hardly responding, too sluggish to keep up with his pace. Of course. He still does not have all his wits about him. James moves back, a little ashamed, and resumes his stroking of Henry's hair.

"Mm," is all the reaction he gets, along with a contented sigh.

"Go to sleep," he tells him. "You have to get well as soon as possible. I don't want to have to send for Hodgson."

"Send for him," Henry says, sounding defeated. "We can't keep up, just you and I."

"And yet we have to. You and I, since no one else will care." When Dundy stays silent, he adds, bitterly, "I think Crozier is stealing our whiskey."

"Fuck the old drunkard," Henry growls with unexpected passion. Wasn't he almost asleep mere seconds before? It startles James into letting go of him. "I hope he drinks himself to death!"

While that would be a vaguely satisfying scenario, his venom is still surprising. They've made an incessant mockery of Crozier since the expedition began, deriding his sour mood and his brooding. But come to think of it, it was almost invariably James complaining about him. He thought Henry was going along with it, not that he was personally adverse to Crozier. He does not know why this disquiets him so.

"Honestly, at the rate he's going I think he might," he says anyway.

"Who will be your second if he dies? Little?"

"You, of course. I would not want anyone but you."

"That's not how it works," Dundy says, and then adds, "But. Me too."

He is too mellow for any irritation to take hold in him, and he already eases back down on the bed. James starts rubbing his back, hoping it feels soothing.

"I will go tell him a piece of my mind later," he says.

"No. Don't go. Stay here with me."

Henry does not sound pleading; he sounds demanding in spite of his relaxed state. James would let no one else talk to him like this, and yet he only feels fondness for him.

"I will stay until you fall asleep."

"Then I shan't sleep."

"Oh, I think you will, old boy," James says, very gently, as he pulls the blanket up to Henry's shoulders.

In no time he feels him relenting and melting into his arms. Dundy's breathing becomes slow and regular against his neck. He may be sweaty, but he too smells good, a familiar, comforting scent James has grown to cherish. He closes his own eyes. It's so warm and nice and cozy that he does not even realise when he dozes off as well.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Apology gift (1843)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lover's tiff in India, easily remedied by Dundy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past tense for this one!
> 
> No smut yet, despite the prompt (terrorbingo: sex toys), but I have a smutty chapter 3 ready.
> 
> The tags for this chapter are: Sex Toys, Falling In Love, Roughhousing, Prostitution, Brothels

* * *

Henry was in a damned good mood, the kind of good mood that lingered for a day or two after a good fuck - courtesy of The Green Basket, a most particular brothel for which admission was next to impossible to gain. It was a rite of passage for sailors to be turned away at the gate, and only a few lucky fellows could boast having been inside. Henry and James had sought admission together from the first day they docked in Bombay, but they were always refused. He suspected it had something to do with James's excessive charm, so he'd gone by himself this time. He'd worn his gruffiest expression, said nothing, and was let inside at last, much to his surprise. Once there, of course, he had to make the most of this unexpected boon, and he'd stayed for as long as his purse allowed. 

Tired, spent, but still smiling, Henry now made his way through the streets of Bombay past the textile shops, dodging porters and baskets and children that spilled into the busy road. The early morning was the liveliest part of the day in this area of town, and the uncountable scents of the marketplace made him want to stop more than once to see what he might find in the chaotic maze of the shops. But the more he neared their lodgings, the more his cheer began fading: James would make a fuss. A dreadful fuss. 

Henry stopped by a stall, pretending to look at the spices, and ran a hand through his hair. Should he bring something else to mollify him, in addition to the extravagant purchase he'd made in the brothel shop? Sweets? Fruits? Henry glanced around the market and shook his head as he gave in and bought a small bag of nuts. He hated that he worried about this. He hated hesitation, in general, and before this blasted expedition, he'd never been one to dawdle. Most of all, he hated how James had become, little by little, the compass by which he set the course of every action of his life.

Henry pursed his lips and hurried along - annoyed now, and annoyed at the fact that he was annoyed. By the time he climbed the stairs of the inn where they shared rooms, with the wooden steps whimpering under his boots, he was decidedly irritated in anticipation. He pushed the door of their room open. James was lying on the bed on his belly, wearing only the short, summery linen drawers that were all the rage in the region. He was sketching something in his diary and looked up at once when he heard the door. The sour expression on his face told Henry all he needed to know, and he braced himself for the unpleasantness to follow as he shut the door behind him.

"Hey-ho! He lives," James said, dryly. He threw his diary on the nightstand and sat up cross-legged.

"Morning, Jamie," he said, affecting naturality as he shouldered off his vest.

James narrowed his eyes. "Good morning? Spare me that, where the bloody fuck were you?"

Henry sighed and fiddled with the bag of nuts before throwing it on the lone table of the room. He wanted to undress, get into bed, and doze off in peace for the hours where the heat was the most relentless. He did not want to have a row, but it was too late for that, wasn't it.

"The Green Basket," he said, to get on with it.

"Oh, you absolute bastard!"

That gave him pause: James seldom used that insult, on account of his own birth, and he'd said it with deliberate venom. Henry glanced at him. Aye, James was proper angry, eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, deep scowl twisting his bottom lip. It didn't help that he found him more attractive by at least tenfold when he looked like that. Henry continued undressing until he too was only in his underclothes, but climbing on the bed with James in that state was no less wise than doing it with a vicious cobra. So he only stood there in the middle of the room and sighed, again.

"That's it?" James hissed. "You won't say anything?"

"What would you like me to say?" 

"Why you went without me, to begin with!"

"Contrary to recent reports, you and I are not joined at the hip yet," he replied, perhaps a little too jeering.

He regretted it at once: James blinked, the pain in his gaze so vivid and raw that Henry considered apologising to him. Christ, he hadn't meant to hurt him more. He took a step forward, but James's expression closed off, and reflected anger again full force.

"Look," he said, attempting to placate him with the futility of trying to capture the wind, "I only went to see if they'd let me in, I thought I'd be turned away. But they did let me in and I couldn't pass it up. I thought of you all the time, believe me. I even bought a little thing for you."

"How very thoughtful of you! Keep it, I don't want your bribes."

"It's not a bribe. It's a gift. Something for us to play with. I thought you might like it. I know you will like it," he babbled. He was too proud to beg him for forgiveness, of course, but the notion of James being so angry at him unsettled him from head to toes.

As if reading his mind, James said, full of spite, "I don't know that I'll ever forgive you."

"What if I get on my knees right this instant? Will you forgive me then?"

"It might help," James conceded, like an offended monarch.

For one brief, dizzying moment, Henry thought he might just do it, so desperate he was to make amends. But such a humiliating ordeal sent a fresh wave of annoyance to his face, hot and suffocating.

"Ah, sod off," he grumbled, and climbed into bed.

"No, you sod off from my bed, traitorous, ungrateful cheat...!"

James tried to push him off but Henry did not let him and grabbed him by the arms - or rather, attempted to. The force with which James fought him off surprised him, but not the fact that he did: he'd known on some level that it would come to blows, earnest rather than playful, as it often did when they quarreled. Now angry himself, Henry wrestled him down against the mattress. He pressed a knee to James's stomach to pin him down, taking care to do it on his uninjured side. A cry of protest - good. Let him see he wasn't above fighting back. He chose to ignore the slap that hit him squarely across the face when he managed to overpower him. God, he loved seeing him like this, wild-eyed and flustered and squirming under his weight. His prick stirred with some interest, despite the session he'd just had at the brothel - how could it not, with James in his arms like this? The helplessness Henry always felt around him frustrated him all over again.

"Why are you being such a Miss Nancy about this, hm?" he said, dropping his voice to a near growl. "It's not like you don't bugger off to fuck others to your heart's content."

"That's different," James hissed, sounding so petulant that Henry had to stop himself from boxing his ears.

"How is it different?"

"I don't hide like you do. I always tell you beforehand. I don't leave you there all night wondering what the bloody fuck I'm up to."

"Well, maybe there's some virtue in discretion. How do you think I slept knowing you'd gone to whore yourself to Major Briggs? That old, rancid... baboon, I don't know why you were so fascinated with him. Could he even get it up for you?"

He thought he was over that incident but he clearly was not. The unpalatable officer had glued himself to James the moment they docked in Ceylon, obsequious and disgusting, touching him openly with his greasy, undeserving paws. Even so, Henry hadn't made James a scene. He'd stewed in his disgust and his jealousy and buried it somewhere deep in his mind - but not deep enough, apparently.

"Oh, he could get it up alright," James said with veritable glee to discover that this would upset him. "He had his way with me and I got useful influences and I don't regret it one bit. And it was months ago!"

"I hated it then and I hate it now," Henry admitted, unable to keep the heat from his voice. "But I didn't nag you about it. What are you on about, James?" He gave him a shake. "I put no ring on your finger that I recall. Am I a husband to come back to you with my tail between my legs?"

"Keep your bloody ring, this isn't about that. You're muddying it all up. The Green Basket, Dundy! Fuck you, we were supposed to go together or not at all."

"We didn't say that," Henry said, but it did make him feel guilty. Guilty enough to let go of James. He sat back on the bed, defeated, and regretting having said anything about rings.

"We didn't have to," James said, more quietly now that he was free. "It was implied."

"I'm sorry, Jamie," he said, the words flying to his lips with ease now that his anger had deflated. "If I had my way you'd have been right in there with me. I'm telling you, I couldn't stop thinking of you, of the fun we could have had together."

James stared at him for impossibly long. He was still flustered from their tumble in bed, his long, brown hair in disarray falling onto his forehead. A drop of sweat was making a slow descent down his neck. Henry wished he could lick it. He'd do better to glance away, to hide this suffocating need for forgiveness from James, but he held his gaze - with the same eerie, disquieting sensation he'd once felt back home as he stood by the edge of a tall cliff, mere steps away from falling to an uncertain end.

"Very well," James said after a moment. "I forgive you."

Hm. Henry eyed him with suspicion: he was known to drag their quarrels for excessively long. But now James was only looking at him with his usual charm and a hint of curiosity in his brown eyes. Relieved beyond words, awash with fondness for him, Henry leaned closer to peck his lips, but James pushed him away with a grimace.

"Ugh," he said. "Don't kiss me with that mouth. You smell of cunt."

"Like that's bothered you before," Henry teased, still trying to steal a kiss.

"Go wash and tell me all about it."

He might have told him to sod off again, but he did feel sticky from the sweat, and the weather was warm enough that the thought of a wash sounded appealing. Henry got out of bed and pulled his drawers down as he made his way to the washbasin in the corner of the room. He rinsed his mouth with a mint-flavoured liquor that burned his throat but that gave him enough of a kick to forget his need for sleep. James had acquired the most ridiculously fragrant soaps the moment they arrived in India, with his usual art of finding extravagant merchandise. Henry chose a jasmine-scented bar he was rather partial to. As he cleaned himself with the damp cloth, he began telling James all about the experience. 

The Green Basket was unusual in the sense that it was set up like a theatre instead of a set of sordid little rooms like other brothels. Attendees sat in silence and watched the lewd performance as if it were a play - multiple women pleasuring each other with techniques Henry had never considered before. It was an education in and of itself, and he knew James would have loved it. After the play was over, they joined their clients in individual rooms like in any other establishment of the sort, but the earlier spectacle was the true attraction of the evening.

Henry was no great storyteller like James, who could weave wondrous tales and fibs as easily as he breathed, but he knew his friend liked the dry, down-to-earth manner in which he described sexual adventures to him - paying particular mind to essential details like the size of breasts or of pricks with military precision, the colours of skin and of privates, and the faces they made when they took their pleasure. James watched him from the bed, his eyes half-closed as if falling asleep, but the flush of his face and the occasional rub to his crotch belied the nonchalant pose. When Henry began describing the merchandise of the brothel shop to him, James's eyes flew open.

"Is that where you got the gift from?" he asked, eager like a boy but for the filthy tone in which he spoke.

"Oh yes," Henry said, and winked. James licked his lips.

He walked over to the chair where he'd thrown his clothes when he finished drying himself. From the vest inner pocket he extracted a leather pouch and tossed it at James. Henry climbed back on the bed, naked - deciding not to bother with drawers in this heat. He lay down comfortably on his back and watched as James opened the pouch with a puzzled expression. He pulled out the wooden, beady object and examined it in silence. It was easily some ten inches in length, with each round protuberance larger in diameter than the last, until it flared up in a circular base some two or three inches wide. A small loop in said base could be used to slip a finger in for easier manipulation. In quick succession, Henry saw James flushing, wide-eyed, biting his bottom lip, and then smirking most alluringly.

"I've heard of this," he said. "And I tried to buy one, but I could never find a shop where it was sold."

"Well, how about it: good old Henry just dropped one on your lap."

One of the softest spots on James's body was the area just below his navel - where most men grow a slight fuzz he was bare like a babe. Henry propped himself on his side and reached to touch him there, stroking him softly with the tip of his fingers. James squirmed, a little ticklish, and met his glance.

"Good old Harry, yes," he said. "I definitely forgive you."

"I thought you already had?"

"Not quite, but I have now." He turned the instrument in his hands, testing the girth of the beads one by one between his index and thumb. "This is far larger than I expected. Is all of it meant to go in?"

"All of it, down to the hilt." Henry wriggled his eyebrows. "Slow and steady wins the race."

"This will be an arduous race, to be sure. I suppose you are thoroughly educated on how to wield this?"

"I saw a thorough demonstration, aye. I think I can figure it out. Wouldn't be the first time I stick phallic-shaped things into your person."

James laughed then, a cheerful laugh that distracted Henry enough to be taken completely by surprise when he rolled on top of him. He always marvelled, yes, that was the word,  _ marvelled _ at how James's supple body was able to fit against his so well, as if it belonged there, as if it were made for this. He was not thin or slim, and yet there was a graceful lightness to him even in his stockier parts. However, his full weight was quite enough to keep Henry pinned down against the mattress, and when he pushed his hips down, slowly and lazily, his half-hardness was impossible to ignore. Henry slid a hand down James's arse almost by instinct, squeezing one of the cheeks on top of his short drawers, and when that was not enough, he slipped a hand into them to grab the warm, firm flesh there. 

"Who says," James asked against his lips, "that it's into my person we're sticking it?"

And this, this was the reason why Henry put up with all the quarrels and all the fuss and anything else James threw in his direction. His friend's capricious nature was fluid enough for playing either stern master or devoted servant, captain of a vessel or ship's boy, Zeus or Ganymede according to his whims - leaving Henry dizzy and disoriented and never knowing  _ who _ would come next to ravish him or be ravished. He'd never noticed how ensnared he'd become in his webs until he was at ease and unlikely to ever want to escape. Wherever James went, Henry would go, and he'd do whatever James asked, not because he obeyed him but because he wanted him pleased and content, and ah, here was the helplessness he both dreaded and craved.

"We'll take turns," he conceded, his voice raspy, barely able to finish his sentence before James crushed their mouths together in a kiss.

Henry had assumed he was too tired and spent, but he parted his lips at once, and when James slid his tongue against his he felt as breathless as a man drowning, drowning, drowning in a furious ocean of uncharted depths.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Surveying (1845)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Passed the day in working and making observations, when the sun did peep out, with Le Vesco[n]te. (...) Le Vesco[n]te and I on the island since six this morning, surveying. It is very satisfactory to me that he takes to surveying, as I said he would."_  
>  June-July 1845

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has been upped to Explicit, here comes some smut.
> 
> The new tags for this chapter are: Jealousy, Rimming, Anal Sex

* * *

"Mind that we do actually make observations today," James says, trying to sound like he's scolding.

"Mm," says Dundy, as he shoulders on the bag with the instruments. 

He turns around to signal the ship that all is well, waving his arm until Gore answers from the deck. He then faces James with just a hint of a smirk. 

"I mean it," James stresses. "Sir John expects us to survey this island well."

"Oh, yes," Henry says, dryly. "We don't want to disappoint Sir John."

James frowns, a little puzzled by the tone. It's enough for Henry to overtake him on the gravel path, the rocks crunching under his feet.

"Well? Come along then," he says, when he sees James isn't moving.

He rejoins him in two steps. "Of course we don't want to disappoint Sir John. _I_ don't want it. Do you?"

"Don't you worry, James. You won't disappoint him," Henry non-answers.

James opens his mouth to keep arguing, then shuts it. It wouldn't do. They have a long day ahead of them, and the way up the lone mountain of the island is brutal to climb, leaving no breath to spare for talking. There will be time later on to press him to elaborate on this sudden sprout of a mutiny. Dundy does not seem in a foul mood, however. He is whistling along as he walks - a rowdy tune that draws a smile out of James. He'd join him, if he had any talent for it. When he looks over his shoulder, The Erebus and The Terror are becoming smaller and smaller in the bay as they ascend, until they look like toy ships lost in the immensity of the freezing ocean.

"Phew," Henry says when they reach the top.

He lowers the heavy bag to the ground and sits down next to it. He then lies on the cold ground, stretching his long limbs as far and wide as he can. James stands close to his head. A part of him would like to remind him that he's not said that they could rest, but it _was_ a steep climb, and Dundy did do all the hauling. Wordlessly, he unfastens the bag and takes the instruments out one by one, squatting down to work on those that require some assembly.

"Pass me the blanket," Henry asks after some time.

James glares at him and tosses it at him. "I have no idea why you've brought that. Surely you know it is still too cold out to overnight here without a tent."

"You know why I've brought it," he says, quietly, and wraps the thick woolen fabric around himself with a satisfied sigh.

When their gazes meet, the raw, hungry look in Henry's eyes startles James despite expecting it. He averts his gaze with a short laugh. Seized by curiosity, he slips a hand in the bag where only the food for the day remains, and yes, indeed, he finds what he was looking for: a tin can of salve that he knows well, its once circular shape deformed due to many hardships over the years. He throws it at Dundy, hitting him on the chest with it, or rather, on the folds of the blanket.

"You presume too much," he teases. 

"I hope for the best, rather."

"Hold on to that hope, then, and come help. The sooner we finish, the more time we will have for each other later."

"Pah," he huffs. "Once upon a time you'd have jumped on me the moment we were alone."

"Once upon a time we were not in a balmy... 31 degrees temperature," he says, glancing at the Fahrenheit thermometer. "Steady, southwestern wind at 8.5 miles per hour. Write it down."

Dundy lets out a monstrous sigh, but he sits up and complies. He opens the notebook in silence, his pen scratching the paper while James dictates the rest of the observations. He's always been meticulous in his bookkeeping despite his more dissolute off-duty behaviour, and his handwriting, while flowery and excessive, covers the page in neat scrawls appropriate for the task at hand. He may complain about how boring he finds it, but he's well suited for survey work - an ideal companion. In more ways than one, James thinks, as he finishes dictating the last magnetic observations and grabs the sextant.

At this time of the year, the Barrow Strait is covered in water, cutting Beechey Island off from the much larger island of North Devon, named so by Parry in an earlier expedition. James faces East, towards the sun, and starts manipulating the sextant to measure their current altitude. He hears Dundy's steps on the uneven terrain, and then he's standing so very close to him.

"Your arm's all crooked," he says, and grabs James's left elbow to lift it up a little.

James turns his head to glare at him. Their faces are very close together.

"Am I dreaming, or are you presuming to teach me how to use a sextant?" he asks.

"I _am_ teaching you," Dundy says, nonchalant, and he holds James's other arm to align it more with the sun. "Since you seem to be doing such a poor job at it."

"Step back before I strangle you," James says, barely holding back his laughter. "28°45', write that down."

"28°45', aye, aye. Anything else, Your Highness? Will you be deigning to do the calculations on your own or will you leave that to me?"

"Since you are so keen this morning, I think you can amuse yourself with that."

Dundy does not step back, scribbling down formula after formula while still standing. Curious, James glances at the numbers populating the page - Henry is quick, much quicker than he is, and he doesn't seem to mind how close together they are standing. Each of their joined breaths leaves a puff of vapour in the frozen air around them.

"There," Dundy says, and hands him the notebook. "What else?"

"What else," James repeats, a little distracted as he reads over the calculations. "We've a couple of hours to spare until the next set of observations. There's a rock formation to the South we haven't surveyed. Or we could go around to the mossy platform that you discovered on our last visit."

Henry's arm slides around his shoulders. "Are you being deliberately frustrating?" he asks, dropping his voice to a pressing whisper that makes James shiver in spite of himself. "I was rather hoping we'd explore the insides of the blanket."

The husky way in which Henry speaks, his firm grip around his shoulders, how close to him he stands; they all betray his desire for James. There's something very flattering in finding himself the recipient of such unbridled passion, after all these years. Dundy's been angling for this for weeks, and they very nearly achieved it the last time they surveyed alone; that time, alas, they were unprepared: no blanket, no salve, only the frigid cold around them that quelled any attempt of close affection.

And he wasn't wrong, before: once upon a time James would have jumped on him at the first occasion, would have insisted day after day that they come survey the island on their own. Not that long ago, in fact. Sometime towards the end of their voyage in the Persian Gulf he realised the dangerous, unwise manner in which he'd grown attached to Henry. ('You and I are not joined at the hip,' Dundy told him some years ago, and he'd hated him for it - but that was no longer true.) Being with him day and night could draw some curiosity, eventually, the scandalous kind of gossip that ruined many a man's life, and that James could not afford if he were to follow his ambitious plans for the future. 

He ought to have ended the association, and instead he invited Dundy to Franklin's expedition. It was implied there would be some incidental distance when Henry joined the crew of the Superb. But James did not last two months without him; he wrote to him asking him to consider joining the Arctic venture. It shocked him that Dundy's answer was a negative, rocked him on his feet, rattled him to the bone. Was there someone else? Was he no longer attached to him? Was he so ready to let James go, after the three exquisite years they'd spent together? He sent a second letter, one he hopes Dundy burned because its melodrama covered James in ridicule, and not one week later Henry was ashore, in his bed, and in his arms. 

But now that they are sailing James has cultivated a paradoxical frost between them, one that he can see puzzles Henry, but that he accepts in silence, as is his way. The quick, unsatisfying tumbles on Erebus, in utter silence under penalty of death, have to suffice - and in a way, they are a suitable reminder that he should be more careful, no matter how much it pains him. Sir John, especially, would tolerate no deviancy in the expedition.

James thinks all this in only the space of a second. They are alone now, and there are no prying ears here. Giving in, he wraps an arm around Henry's waist and pulls him against him until they are nose to nose.

"Tell me, Henry, this blanket of yours, is it warm?" he asks, his voice already hoarse with want.

"Warm and fit for snuggling, my darling."

"Only for snuggling?"

"Snuggling, gobbling, shagging, anything you might fancy today."

"I think I fancy all of that," James says, and kisses him.

Dundy's lips are a bit dry, chaffed from the cold, but his mouth is warm as it rolls against his, kissing back like only he knows. James shivers from head to toes when he feels him grabbing him by the lapels at the neck of his field coat, pulling just hard enough to leave him a little breathless. Henry has always been a forceful lover, and each of his gestures carries a certain irresistibly - belied only by the softness of his kisses, and by how pliant and eager he knows to be when James takes the reins of their trysts. Most times, however, he lets him have his way with him, too fond of the rough manner with which he handles him to deny himself this pleasure. 

Well, this makes for an interesting observation: inside his trousers, his prick responds just as keenly despite the cold. James should make Dundy write that in his notebook, and the only reason he doesn't ask is because he knows he _will_ do it, and he'd rather spare himself the hassle of having to blot out that line to irrecognition later. He slides his hands from Henry's waist to the front of his trousers, cupping him through the thick fabric - finding him stiff under his palm. James kisses him again, and again, until Dundy is moaning and holding him and bucking into his hand with telling urgency.

He has a longing to undo the trousers and get on his knees, but the last time they attempted this the cold made it impractical. So James leads Henry towards the blanket, tugging at him by the waistband until they are close enough to lie down. It's a good spot, in this otherwise barren island: instead of lying the cloth on the gravelly terrain, Dundy placed it on a rather flat rock formation, grey and smooth. The blanket is barely wide enough to cover both of them, and the rock is unpleasantly chilly against his back, but when Henry slides on top of him James forgets the slight discomfort.

"You know," he says, pushing his hips upwards, "if we manage this, it might just become the northernmost buggery on record."

" _If_ we manage?" Henry says, against his lips with an eyebrow raised. "Oh, we'll manage. Too bad it's not a story you can boast about later, hm?"

James laughs. "Let's make it memorable first, so that it may be a story worth telling."

Dundy begins undoing the buttons of James's coat, and of his vest, enough to slip a cold, freezing hand against his belly. He gasps in protest.

"You aren't thinking of undressing me, I hope."

"Mm, I'll keep you warm enough," he says, and undoes the trousers next.

James lets out another gasp when the cold hand grasps his prick, the sensation both making him want to recoil and yet interesting enough to send a fresh wave of arousal. The blanket tents up as Dundy crawls down his body, and James hisses at the brief rush of chilled air before he closes his mouth on him, its warm wetness engulfing him whole. James mutters under his breath and then remembers there is no need to keep quiet here: he moans, then, loudly, without a care in the world. It seems to encourage Henry to tease him, sucking on his tip, sliding his tongue up and down, and using his tightened fist to keep a snug fit on his cock - until James is writhing and heaving, only kept in place by Dundy's iron grip on his hip.

"Get on with it," he orders, with a most undignified whimper. "Before my bollocks freeze off."

"I like your bollocks," Henry says, and immediately slides further down to take James's balls into his mouth. 

James holds his breath, torn between impossible arousal and vague trepidation. He can tell Dundy is being gentle, barely massaging them with his tongue, tugging them together just enough to keep him on the edge. When James breathes again, it comes out ragged and hoarse, and he pulls the blanket skywards just a little; never mind the cold, he wants to see. Henry looks up at him with a grin, his face all sweaty, and then - then. He moves his head further downwards, and that tongue of his starts licking his arsehole.

James makes a sound that was meant to be 'Fuck,' or maybe 'Harry,' but it comes out as "Fahh," raw, needy.

Henry is thorough - he licks it and sucks on it with the same ravenous hunger he shows when eating a particular treat he is fond of. It's so filthy, so unthinkable, and yet he seems perfectly delighted with it. Not exactly a surprise, Dundy will gobble down anything he can lie his eyes on. Then the tongue starts pushing in, probing at James most insistently, and it manages to breach him, sliding in just a bit and _oh_. 

James blinks with a strangled cry. 

That certainly felt like an orgasm, but his cock is still rock hard and dry as it rests on his belly. James reaches down to hold himself, a little puzzled. Henry is laughing against his ear, and he presses a quick kiss to his cheek. He's coating himself with the salve, giving himself a few pumps to stay hard in the chill. James mirrors his gestures, frigging himself as he stares at him. Unless he wants to pull his trousers all the way down, along with his boots, he supposes he'll have to lie on his side or on his stomach. Dundy is already sliding his arms all around him, enveloping him tightly - turning him to the left as he presses himself to his back. His breath, hot and searing against James's neck, comes out in short, raspy puffs as he starts pushing into him with excruciating care.

"Do it," James says through his teeth, too impatient for gentleness. "Stop holding back. I want to be reminded of it when I dine with Sir John tonight."

He doesn't know why he says that, what door he has kicked open with words he meant to be inane. But Henry gasps - growls against his neck. He grabs James by the shoulders and turns him so that they are facing each other again. His eyes are wide, and there's an astonished wildness in his gaze. Then he frowns, just as feral in his anger, and James feels a cold shiver down his spine. What has he done, what has he said? Is this what's been bothering Henry about Sir John? His possessiveness has always been deadly in that he never voices it, and when it becomes loose it's always a dreadsome sight to behold. Henry pushes him, flips him around so that James is on his stomach. He snakes a hand under him both to raise his hips and to cup his prick, and then he presses his mouth to his ear.

"I hope you'll think of me, James," he says, and slides inside him with none of the tenderness he had before.

James doesn't know what it says about him that he loves this roughness, and that he loves the fact that he can cry out as loud as he wants. His hands, flattened on the smooth rock, try to grasp at something desperately but he finds nothing to hold on to. Henry is being relentless in sliding in and out of him, groaning just as hard as he. James's only regret is that he cannot see him, cannot see his face as he fucks him to his heart's content. He looks to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of him, and as if on cue Henry bends down so that their faces are more aligned - in doing so he tears another cry out of James on account of the new depth. What a bright, irresistible passion in his gaze. His silver hair, curly from sweat, clings to his forehead. Rocked by the sweet, painful knowledge that he is much, much too fond of him, James grins at him, and Henry grins back, laughs, and gives a few hard thrusts that manage to undo them both.

James is aware, through the hazy, postcoital sluggishness, that Dundy has dressed him and turned him around, and is kissing him all over: his neck, his chest, his belly; soft, sweet little kisses as if to make himself forgiven for his earlier ardour. James pulls him closer, hauling him against him close enough to kiss the top of his head. For a moment, there is nothing in the world but the warm cocoon of the blanket, and Dundy's steady, grounding breathing close to his neck. It is, in fact, the closest James has been to perfect calm in far too many months, and he closes his eyes, not quite dozing off but enjoying it in silence. That is, until Henry's stomach growls.

"Hungry already?" James asks with a laugh, eyes still closed.

"I'm always hungry," Dundy says. "But I'd rather stay here a bit longer. With you."

James opens his eyes. 

Dundy is looking at him. "You still thinking of going through Russia, afterwards?" he asks, playing with the buttons of James's coat as he does them up.

"Yes, of course. You will come with me, won't you?"

"I don't anticipate you taking no for an answer."

"Why?" James gives him a tug to see his face better. "I thought you wanted to go 'round the world too."

"Mm," he says. "I was just thinking how much I'd like to be somewhere warm with you again."

"We can go after Russia. I'll be a Captain then, God willing. We will sail down to South America together."

"You can show me Brazil."

James's throat feels very tight. They've had this conversation before. He doesn't like remembering how it ended - it feels like he squandered something precious, like a willful child tossing a diamond into the ocean. He pushes that memory from his mind, somewhere deep down, far, where he won't be able to ever reach.

"Yes," he croaks. "Yes, I would like that."


	4. The Barricade (1842)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry sees James falling in Chinkiang. He will not let him die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, hello, did this work? Posting this in the middle of the kudo issue... ummmm, I don't know if AO3 is stable yet but I need to get this chapter out! Hope it doesn't eat it... it already ate some kudos...😭 I hope you see it xD
> 
> A warning of "Graphic depictions of violence" has been added for this chapter. James is shot and there's a lot of blood. The tags for this chapter are: Friends With Benefits, Ambiguous Relationships, Blood and Injury, Falling In Love, Canon-Typical Violence 
> 
> We have cameos from The Terror here: Hodgson and Des Voeux and the surgeon at the end is Dr. Stanley.
> 
> The Terror bingo: linens

* * *

  
  


Henry ducked behind an overturned cart, his pulse thumping so hard in his ears he thought his head might explode - a fitting end, when everything around him was aflame or exploding. Curse his fucking luck and curse the moment he'd stepped ashore in Chinkiang. He was not supposed to be there - but in the confusion he'd ended up with the HMS Blonde squadron, over the city wall and into the frenzied bloodbath in the streets. This wasn't at all like naval combat, shooting other boats from a relative distance. This was visceral and chaotic and Henry's sword was red with blood - this type or fighting woefully ineffective, too slow, too personal. In his other hand he held his pistol, but he did not want to use it until it was absolutely necessary on account of how long it would take him to reload it. The other men of the squadron were advancing with or without him, spilling through the streets and killing anyone opposing them. But when Henry ran forward, he found that he was alone.

Not good.

He looked up at the Sun, trying to locate East - the Eastern gate was in the process of being breached last he heard. He ran in that direction, taking cover against the musket shots. It smelled of blood and burned flesh; he wanted to cover his nose but he was too out of breath for that. He slid his sword back in the scabbard; it would be of no use here. As he made his way down the street, he saw that his plan would not bear fruit: the Chinese had built a barricade with tables and carts and objects he could barely discern at this distance. 

But he also saw a slew of uniforms, British uniforms, pouring down the walls and dispersing on the nearby streets. Reinforcements! And already a detachment was loading Congreves to bring down the barricade.

Henry gasped and stopped short in his tracks.

The man firing the rockets was no other than James. Because of course he would. He was impossible to miss, too tall, too loud, too brazen in the battlefield. Henry nearly laughed with relief at the sight, but his mirth was short-lived: James missed his first shot. He heard the curse, even at the distance he was from him. He saw him reloading, then taking aim again. A second miss. And Henry realised in horror that everything that made James _James_ became a liability in the battlefield; he was too easy a target: too tall, too loud, and too brazen. 

He tried to shout a warning.

He was too late.

Henry heard the musket shot before he saw it strike. It pierced James on his left arm. He whipped back like a spinning top, tried to steady himself, and fell with a cry. The blood splattered on the ground.

For one long, agonising second, Henry felt as if his mind had stopped. He thought nothing, he did nothing, he heard nothing. All that he saw was James, his horrified gaze fixed on the unmoving form. Then everything came back all at once: the stench of bile and death, the deafening gunshots and explosions, and a roar of rage - his own. He fired two shots towards the barricade, the most his pistol could do. The visceral triumph of seeing one man falling filled him with enough impulse to run to the abandoned rocket cart. 

Two men were trying to rouse James: a lad young enough to be the ship's boy, and an armed young man that Henry vaguely recalled from somewhere. He grabbed him by the arm with so much force he hauled the man upright.

"Keep firing!" he ordered. "We need that barricade down!" 

Hodgson. That was his name. Hodgson stared at him, as if trying to understand who he was, where he'd come from, and why he was giving orders. But he obeyed, and hurried to position the cart again.

Henry, on his knees now, turned James as gently as possible. His face was ashen, devoid of colour. But he lived, by Jove, did he live: James let out a piercing shriek, writhing in pain. Why was there so much blood? His arm was soaked in bright red. Henry lifted it gingerly and found a second hole in James's body: deep into his chest. The blood pouring out of there was dark red.

Shit. Fuck.

The ship's boy looked like he was going to burst into tears. Henry wanted to scream at him to gather his wits, but the third Congreve at last hit its target, rocking the ground with the explosion and filling the air with smoke and the smell of burned flesh. Henry pulled James into his arms to shield him from the impact.

"Hurrah, Hodgson!" he shouted, but James screamed in pain again. "Hush, my dear," he said without thinking. "We'll get you out of here in no time."

James's tearful eyes focused on him. "H-henry?" he mumbled.

"Yes, it's Henry. I need you to bear this for a little longer. We'll get you out of here. Alright?" He still had no idea how he was supposed to do that, but he turned towards the boy. "You there! What is your name?"

"Charles, sir," the boy mumbled. "Charles Des Voeux."

A foreign name, like his own, but the lad sounded decidedly Irish. Henry touched his arm without letting go of James.

"Bring me that linen from the barricade," he told him as he pointed. What was it? A blanket? A dirtied bag? "Bring it along! We'll use it to carry him. Hurry now!"

Des Voeux scrambled towards the barricade at once. Hodgson, having abandoned the rocket cart, came closer. He frowned when he saw James in Henry's arms, and the blood that covered them both.

"That looks hopeless, sir," he said, bluntly. "I don't think he'll make it. We should advance..."

"Shut it!" Henry screamed. James let out a whimper, evidently afraid, and he held him tighter. "He _will_ make it, do you hear me? He will never die!" He gestured towards the barricade. "And cover the boy's moves, for fuck's sake!"

Hodgson stared at him for the space of a second but obeyed, running after Des Voeux with a musket ready to fire.

"Henry," James moaned, over and over. He was so pale. "H-henry. Harry," he slurred.

Henry couldn't help a smile at this. Only his family ever called him Harry. 

"I'm here, James," he said. "I am not going anywhere. I'll see that you make it out of this one."

After a few minutes that seemed eternal on account of James's pained moaning, Des Voeux brought back the dirtied piece of linen. 

"It's going to hurt, my darling," he warned James, and hauled him onto it ignoring the screams, though every single one of them felt like the lash of a whip. 

He glanced up at the two soldiers. Hodgson still looked doubtful, and the urge to punch him rose the longer Henry kept his gaze on him, so he gave up on that. 

"Join the others," he told him with a dismissing gesture. "Come on, lad," he said to Des Voeux. "Let's bring him back to the Cornwallis."

He regretted having sent Hodgson away the moment they walked through what remained of the barricade. Being only two, preoccupied with carrying James, increased the difficulty of navigating the streets covered in smoke. They had to pay attention to their surroundings and be ready to defend themselves, but transporting a wounded man necessitated being both quick and quiet, two things they could not manage in these circumstances. They had to put James down nearly at every intersection to check that the way was clear, which only increased his agony. But the Eastern gate was at last within sight, and from what Henry could observe, it was indeed breached. He squatted down next to James while Des Voeux scouted the next street, holding his bloodied hand tight and fighting the urge to recoil at the slippery feeling.

"Harry," James said, panting. "Find Ligia. Find her. Tell her, I love her."

Henry gazed at him. They'd been sharing a bed for nearly three months, but James had never mentioned a sweetheart. His heart gave a quiver, but he silenced that.

"You'll tell her yourself," he told him, very gently. "Who is she?"

"My... old nurse. Portuguese. Still living. Please, Harry."

He scolded himself for the relief that washed over him with the explanation, and tried to smile. "We'll go see her together once this is over. Mm?"

"She hardly speaks English," James went on. "Why are you... saving me? I'm not even English."

"Hush now. You shouldn't speak. The pain is making you delirious."

"I'm not English," James repeated. "Nothing but a bastard. A lie. I'm a Portuguese lie. I'll die a lie now."

"James," Henry said, his throat tight as he understood he was not supposed to ever know this. "I don't give a flying fuck who your parents were. But you aren't going to die."

Des Voeux was returning, but Henry did not acknowledge him at first. He was staring at James, bloodied and ashen on the dirty linen, holding his gaze. He nearly choked with the sudden realisation that he loved this man far more than a passing acquaintance he happened to be bedding. What a most inopportune moment to have this belated epiphany. Henry blinked back some tears he had never expected to shed.

"The way is clear, sir!" Des Voeux shouted, impatient, and Henry rose as if in a dream.

"Let's run," he said. It seemed another was speaking in his place. "We haven't much time."

* * *

  
  
  


The Cornwallis physician only gave James a cursory glance, inspecting the wounds in a laconic manner that unnerved Henry like a punch to the gut.

"He won't make it," he said with a shrug, and wiped his bloodied hands with a cloth.

Oh, the brute. James let out an anguished whimper, and Henry pulled him into his arms again, the gesture automatic. 

"Well, bloody make sure he does," he snarled, "because I brought him all the way here and I won't see that it's for nothing!"

"But there is nothing I can do here," the doctor said, in a chilling tone. "The bullet has lodged itself too close to his spine. If I open him up, I'll either kill him or leave him crippled. But most likely will kill him."

"Come now," Henry hissed. "You can do better than that! There must be a way for him to live. There must be!"

"One in a million, perhaps."

"We'll take it."

The physician sighed, and Henry was sure he saw him rolling his eyes. "Very well," he said. "I will operate. But it's a waste of everyone's time. Lie him on his stomach and fetch me some clean linen from that cupboard."

Henry glanced around the empty sickbay, bemused that there was no one else to assist. He was loath to leave James in the hands of this surgeon even for a second, but he had to obey. He placed James on the sick berth, gingerly as to not hurt him in excess, but when he tried moving away James would not let go of him.

"I'll only be a second, me old boy," he told him, stroking his hair with his free hand. "I need to fetch some linen for the doctor. You'll be alright."

He ran to the cupboard. His own hands were bloodied, leaving red stains on the clean cloth, but the surgeon did not seem to mind. He was cutting up what was left of James's shirt with a pair of surgical scissors, and he placed the linen on each side of him. To stop the blood from dripping, Henry guessed.

"You'll have to hold him," the doctor said, with the same chilled, indifferent tone. "Keep his head down and see that he doesn't jump when I cut him."

Henry moved to the edge of the sick bed where James's head was. His eyes were wide, afraid, and he was visibly trembling. He had no idea how to proceed, or how to best hold him. At his wits end, Henry grabbed a chair from the nearby desk and sat on it. He was just tall enough to be able to hold James's upper body, and cradle his head against his chest. He heard him whimper.

"Steady on, Jamie," he whispered into his hair. "It'll be all over soon."

Henry could see an unsettling glint in the surgeon's eye when he cut the skin of James's back open. The cry of pain was muffled against him, and a fresh gush of blood poured out of the new incision. Henry was not squeamish, but he had to look away, wincing in sympathetic pain. 

"Shh, my darling," he said, very softly. "Just a bit longer. Almost done now, my dear." His voice had the soft cadence of a prayer, even as he felt James crying and screaming into his chest. "That's a good lad. You're being so brave, my sweet." 

The physician glanced at him then, half puzzled, half derisive. Henry felt his face flushing. But his newfound affection would not be silenced, not when James needed him the most. He held the doctor's gaze calmly, and when he had enough of it, he barked, "Well? Bloody get on with it, then!"

He continued his string of nonsensical pet names, holding James firmly to stop him from writhing as the surgeon dug into his back looking for the bullet, every foray forcing out more blood. How James was still conscious, he had no idea. But he was still alive, contrary to the grim prognosis, when the bullet was finally dug out of his flesh. And James seemed very much not crippled, awake and alert.

"It's all over," he told him, shushing him again. "He's just stitching you up now."

Four sets of stitches: one on his back, one on his side, and one on each side of the arm. He was fortunate, Henry supposed, that no bone had been touched on the bullet's destructive path, but the damage to his flesh seemed extensive. God almighty, he had to make it, after this ghastly operation. He had to.

"There," the doctor said with some disgust as he moved away from the operating table. "Wipe the blood off him before it dries, if you care to." He gestured towards a bassinet full of water. "If he gets no fever in the next hours, he may yet live, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

"I'll hold it in your stead," Henry sneered, and paid him no mind as he left. 

He helped James onto a sideways position on his good arm. The bassinet the doctor had pointed him to was filled with water of a greenish tint, positively disgusting. Henry knew nothing about medicine, but clean water was not supposed to be this colour. He inspected the drinking pitcher next: this one was clear when he poured it, at least. He used it to sponge off James's arm clean. He'd lost so much blood. The skin felt cold and clammy to the touch, but at least he was responsive and able to follow his gestures with his gaze. Henry cleared away the bloodied linen from the bed and brought a clean, dry blanket to cover him. He ought to dress him, really, put a fresh shirt on him and rid him of those blood-soaked trousers, but he had no idea which cabin was James's in this ship. Only then did it hit him that he should not be there, that as an acting Lieutenant he should have stayed in the city and helped with its taking instead of evacuating James to the Cornwallis. Henry bit his lip, amazed at how not a single thought along those lines had crossed his mind during the ordeal.

"Harry," James whispered, drawing his attention again.

"Yes, my darling?" he said, returning to his side in one instant.

"What I said... what I told you..."

"It will never cross my lips," Henry reassured him. 

James still looked doubtful, afraid. Of course. They didn't know each other for very long, did they. He had no way of knowing Henry would never betray him.

No one else was in the sick bay. He leaned closer and kissed him on the forehead. 

"I swear it," he said.

He heard James sigh with relief.

He would live. 

Henry would see to that.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. The Ruined Fort (1844)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We had a fine ride (...) first visiting a fine spring in the centre of the island (...). On returning we visited the extensive ruins of a Portuguese fort."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some short fluff for this chapter (with a pinch of angst), originally it was going to have Henry's thoughts as well but I've moved them to next chapter, as it fits better both in mood and in timeline.
> 
> This chapter is based on excerpts from Le Vesconte's diary [screenshotted here](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/611248908326371328/takeaways-dundy-likes-food-a-lot-ok-dates-fish) while they were visiting Bahrain with the Clio. [Here's](https://www.colonialvoyage.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Fort-Arad-Bahrain.-Author-and-Copyright-Jo%C3%A3o-Sarmento-601x330.jpg) what the fort looks like today. re: crenels and merlons, see [here](https://i.pinimg.com/600x315/37/8a/81/378a81b0f9cca0823aea14ca7cd04146.jpg).
> 
> Next update should be on Thursday... but it's difficult times for us all over the world right now, isn't it. Hope you are all well.
> 
> Terrorbingo: 'there was no time'

* * *

The ruins of the old fort overlooked the coast. Its outer ramparts, broken and dusty after centuries of abandonment, met the sand so close to the waves they nearly blended with the sea. Atop the tallest watchtower, James looked around the ruined site and found nothing of what he'd expected to see from this vantage point. It was just an old fort, washed over by sand and salt. There was nothing distinctively _Portuguese_ about it, save perhaps the quaint round shape of its towers - giving it a friendly air instead of a menacing one. 

But he hadn't known what to expect, in truth. Once he learned there were Portuguese ruins in Bahrain, he could not get the thought of visiting them out of his mind. In his fancies, he'd imagined he would feel some manner of kinship standing here, a sense of belonging he'd always searched for far and wide across the globe but that he could never quite grasp. A childish notion, that was clear now. He felt nothing in particular for the people who had built this fort or had inhabited it in the past, much like he'd felt nothing grand for the people of Lisbon when he visited that city as a boy, or found no specific charm in the streets of Macao as a soldier.

The guides assigned to them, two easy-going young lads, were accommodating enough to humour James's wishes, so he'd dragged Dundy along on this little expedition - much to his annoyance, he was well aware. Henry had whined about it incessantly during the long ride there, especially after having to leave the charming little spring where they'd bathed around midday. What a tease, to see him in his underclothes, dripping wet and toasted by the piercing sun, so close to him and yet so unattainable because of their guides who never left them in their solicitousness. James'd wanted him then. He still did. But that would have to wait until the night, alone in the guest chamber arranged by their hosts.

James glanced at Henry: oblivious to his patriotic mood, or lack thereof, he was seated in a crenel of the watchtower, his long legs bent like a comfortable feline as he snacked on what was meant to be their afternoon tea. The biscuits he was munching on had a syrup coating that apparently left his fingers sticky; he licked them one by one when he was done eating, too entranced by the taste to bother with decorum. Henry then reached for the bag where the rest of the food was stored and pulled out a citrusy fruit. Some dust had caught in his hair, scruffy as usual because of the wind, but it had a sandy tint, especially in the stray grey hairs that peppered his head. He met James's gaze then, and smiled. 

"What's got you so pensive, hm?" Henry asked as he started peeling the fruit.

James sighed and moved closer to him. There was not much room in the crenel to join him there, but Dundy spread his legs, leaving just enough space for him to squeeze in there somehow. He also let them back around him when James sat, like the grip of a crab's claws around his waist. 

"Today is my birthday," James said, after a long pause during which he leaned against one of the merlons of the tower.

"What? I thought your birthday was in February," Henry said, and stopped peeling the fruit. 

"My real birthday." James met his glance, hoping he'd see no pity in it as he elaborated, "Lígia told me the date when I was a boy. It would have been best to forget it, but I could not."

"Oh." Henry only frowned. "You should have told me. I'd have got you a gift."

He continued peeling the fruit with genuine nonchalance. James envied him, for a moment, he envied how simple things must be from his perspective. Birthday? Gift, evidently. He knew nothing of what it had meant growing up celebrating a day that was a sham, and observing in secret a date that no one else, save his old nurse, knew about. But James was too weary for melancholia, especially now that he'd finally told someone about it. He leaned more into Dundy's legs. He could use some lightheartedness on this day.

"Like what?" he asked, meaning the gift. "And do NOT say a native donkey."

"Why not!" Henry let out a sound that was both a whine and a scoff. "They are so pretty, with their little [orange](https://scontent-lhr8-1.cdninstagram.com/v/t51.2885-15/sh0.08/e35/c240.0.960.960a/s640x640/73372157_133574538040749_8803508627746417786_n.jpg?_nc_ht=scontent-lhr8-1.cdninstagram.com&_nc_cat=109&_nc_ohc=pNU0kAqO01sAX81WUg-&oh=637b910cc689da3507eeba2b66ab6087&oe=5E984D29&ig_cache_key=MjE1MjQxMDUxNTAzNTc1NTkwMw%3D%3D.2.c) legs. I don't know why you don't want one."

"Dundy, we have more than enough on our hands with Cheshire."

In truth, he couldn't fault Henry for Cheshire. He'd be just as taken in with the cub cheetah, and it hadn't occurred to him that their new pet would grow to full size so quickly.

"But..."

"No, no, enough! I'll not have the Clio turned into Noah's ark because of you."

"You're no fun," Henry grumbled, but James knew he was not upset in earnest. After a pause during which he finished peeling the fruit, he said, "Well. I wouldn't have eaten all the sweets, to begin with." He averted his gaze, regretful. "I'd have left half for you."

James chuckled. "I asked for those because I know you like them."

"Even so. I wouldn't have done it." He handed him the round little fruit. "Have this one, at least."

James took it, touched with the gesture because he knew what a glutton Dundy could be. It was surprisingly fresh when he bit into it, despite the heat. Some tangy juice dripped down his chin and he wiped it with his tongue. When he glanced up, he found that Henry was looking at him longingly. James swallowed his bite and glanced down the tall walls of the fort. He couldn't see their guides, though that was no guarantee they could not see _them_. But it was well worth the risk: he leaned closer, into the legs wrapped around him, and kissed him on the lips. Henry made a soft, happy sound against his mouth, dragging the kiss for a bit longer until James pulled back with a laugh. 

"I know what I should have got you," Dundy said, stroking his back affectionately. "One of them pearls the divers fish around the island."

"Pearls?" James laughed harder, returning to his fruit. "As in, a necklace to go 'round my neck? Better get me a dress as well while you're at it."

"I _am_ definitely getting you a dress to go with it," Henry said, and winked.

James grinned at him, rather delighted with the tease. It would not be the first time, and he did love dressing up - and loved the way Henry played along. He leaned back against the merlon again, this time facing the sea. Oh, he could see their guides now: the lads were playing far down the beach, chasing each other in their long robes, laughing, and not minding them at all. James followed their game while he finished eating the citrusy fruit, envying their idleness but also finding it comforting somehow.

"What's it like, then? South America."

James turned his head to look at Dundy. His friend was leaning on the other side of the crenel, his eyes keen with curiosity. He glanced away.

"I," he started, and had to clear his throat. "I don't remember Brazil, and I've only sailed down as far as Venezuela. Not very far South at all." Henry did not seem satisfied with this answer, so he struggled to elaborate, "It's... green. Its coasts are so green. Not the subdued, pale green of England's hills. The green hues there are vivid, bright, lifelike - a bit like India, I suppose. But the water in the ocean is so clear you can see starfish near the mangroves as you sail by, and the beaches seem never-ending, running far, far, as far as the eye can see. Even from the ship we could hear the birds, their cries echoing from deep inside the forest, and at night, the steady breeze brought the roars of wild animals from the shadows."

"Sounds beautiful."

"It was." James sighed, the memories paining him more than he expected. 

"I should like to see it one day. With you, preferably."

"Oh, yes! I'd quite like that. I've thought... I considered going there, once or twice. To Brazil. Would have made my life easier, probably."

"Settling there, you mean?"

"Yes. Buying land, farming it, marrying someone local."

Henry raised one eyebrow. "And why haven't you?"

"Can you really see me as a farmer?" James laughed, and Henry with him.

"No," he said. "But I also don't see you as a husband."

Any other time, James would have laughed again, but the jibe did not sit well with him.

"I'd be a fine husband," he argued, a little piqued.

"Mm, for a month or two, maybe. Then you'd grow bored of your poor wife and go back to chasing skirts and trousers all over town."

"I've not grown bored of you," James countered.

"It's not the same thing, now, is it?"

 _Isn't it? Isn't it,_ James thought, but he was too sullen and felt too raw to continue arguing. Or maybe not quite.

"I'd be a fine husband," he repeated, dryly. "Not to a young girl, evidently, who'd step on my toes incessantly. An older woman, a widow, someone who'd understand."

"Hmm." Henry's short laugh sounded doubtful.

"Why are you being so cynical? Do _you_ think you'd make a better husband?"

"I know I would not. That's why I shan't ever be one."

"Ever? Not even for money?"

"Especially not for money."

"For love, then?"

"I'm already in love," Henry said, and James felt his heart stop.

This was the closest they'd ever come to discussing the nature of their arrangement. How long had it been now, just over two years? And they'd never said, they'd never acknowledged out loud the hidden current running down under each of their interactions, as silent and deadly as the ones found in the dark depths of the open seas, capable of wrecking ships to pieces. He ought to say he loved him too. Because he did. James did. But the magnitude of it, that he usually ignored with feigned calm, forced him to keep his mouth shut as if in a panic.

"If I ever _had_ to marry," Henry insisted, his tone a little pleading, "I'd marry you."

It was becoming painful to hold his gaze, so earnest and full of hope. James glanced down in catastrophe.

"What a pity it can't happen, isn't it," he said, desperately seeking to reel the conversation back to lightheartedness. "Maybe we could marry the same woman. I always thought it was the obvious solution to all the drama surrounding Castor and Pollux."

"Castor and Pollux," Dundy repeated absently. He sounded deflated. Defeated. 

"The heroes in the myth," James said, trudging on like a fool and making increasingly less sense. "They both loved the same woman. We should find ourselves one willing to have us both. Two fine husbands for the price of one."

Henry stayed silent for such a long moment that James considered in an even greater panic taking it all back, declaring that he loved him, and suggesting to marry in secret, just the two of them with some inconspicuous jewellery they'd only wear on occasion. But there was no time: the game of their young guides had brought them to the edge of the watchtower, and they shouted up at them asking if they would be much longer.

Henry uncrossed his legs, freeing James from his grip. "I'm ready to go," he said without looking at him, and stood.

"Harry," James begged as he grabbed him by the arm.

Dundy did not look angry. A little sad perhaps, but when he flashed James a smile he looked like his usual self.

"Come on," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "If we hurry, we'll be just in time to celebrate your birthday after sundown."

James did not stand. He looked up at him, ashamed, contrite. Henry stepped closer and ruffled his hair, lingering enough to scratch his scalp with his fingers - an incredibly pleasant sensation. _I do not deserve him, do I_ , James thought with a pang of anguish. He had a brief fancy of reaching forward and pulling Henry's trousers down and being thorough enough to make him forget that damned conversation, but it struck him how woefully insufficient that would be to be in his good graces again.

"One donkey," he blurted out.

"What?"

"One donkey, we may take one donkey on the ship. A small one. And only one."

Henry laughed so heartily that James let out a sigh of relief, and raised a silent prayer that this would be enough to make himself forgiven.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Starvation Cove (1848)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ill-fated march southwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "Major Character Death" warning has been added. The tags for this chapter are: Open Relationships, Ambiguous Relationships, Jealousy, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Grief/Mourning. Also idk if I should warn for this but, uh, Le Vesconte is REALLY not fond of Crozier, for obvious reasons.
> 
> This is a very depressing chapter. A lot of hurtful stuff going on between them, and not just the deaths. There will be at least another one, to end this series on a happier note (for the bingo prompt: "first time"). Originally, that happy chapter was going to be the last. But the more I wrote this pairing, the more I longed for them to survive. So I'm considering writing an alternate ending (a fix-it), after I finish with the bingo prompts. Let me know if this is something you'd be into reading, please!
> 
> Terror bingo: Starvation Cove

* * *

_Castor and Pollux_.

They're well into another ghastly winter in the Arctic when Henry remembers that conversation. He's reminded of it apropos of nothing, as he catches a stray conversation between Bridgens and Peglar discussing Greek literature during one of his rounds on the crowded ship. Bridgens and Peglar, who Henry suspects are entangled in a peculiar arrangement of their own (he told James of his observations, as he usually does about everything else, with no malice or judgement whatsoever, but James uncharacteristically reacted with marked irritation: ' _And what do you suggest I do, Dundy?'_ , he said when Henry in fact had not suggested doing anything at all, ' _Don't you think it would be rather hypocritical of me to go after Bridgens who's cleaned our linen for nearly three years now?'_ For the first time in a very long while, Henry felt like arguing, like starting a fight. But he kept his mouth shut and, thereafter, his observations to himself.)

He only knows the story about Castor and Pollux in the vaguest of terms, more interested in the constellation named after them and how to locate it when out at sea, than in the legend. Bridgens has an extensive and excellent collection of books he loans to the men, a perfect example of James's keen eye for choosing his crew. When Gore still lived and there was time to be idle, Henry borrowed a book from him on occasion, but not very often: he had his own books to read, and James's. And he's never been much of a reader. Practical information, that's what he'd rather read, Proceedings of various scientific bodies that may be of use in their expedition. But he suddenly wants to read about Castor and Pollux. If anything, to castigate himself with bitter memories and to remind himself that he has been, in fact, terribly foolish to follow James to the ends of the Earth when he had ample warning that they were navigating on uncertain waters, the two of them. 

It was one thing to tolerate James's straying back when they were adventuring across the seas: flings only ever lasted as long as they were docked somewhere, and their ship remained an impregnable bastion where only Henry reigned. He came to regard them more humorously as time went on; when they returned to London he was capable enough to tease James about it and on occasion to suggest a willing prospect he might have overlooked. 

But it's another matter entirely to be cooped up on a stale ship, month after month, and to observe in silence the inevitable progression of James's fascinations. 

Sir John at first, and the desperate thirst in James's eyes to be held in high regard by him. Then the obsession with Crozier, festering and growing like a poisonous weed; if this had happened on land, James might have gone and got it out of his system, and never spoken of it except in disbelief that he'd gone through with it ( _'Good God, can you believe I let that sourly Irishman have his way with me?'_ ). The more weeks pass, the more Henry has to bite his tongue for fear of lashing out at James, of asking him when he'll stop looking for the father he never had in his longing for older men. It wouldn't be fair to say that to him. After all, Henry's own flings on the side have all invariably looked like James, men _and_ women: searching in others what he could never quite grasp in the real object of his affection.

"Castor and Pollux?" Bridgens repeats when he finally builds enough courage to ask for a book.

There's something in his gaze, a hint of wonder that might make Henry blush if he were another kind of man, one with his heart on his sleeve. Like recognises like, they say, and a silent understanding passes between them, layers upon layers of deflecting curiosity, of living in secret, of hiding one's feelings. Not that this should be a great surprise to Bridgens: as James remarked, he must have seen uncountable evidence of this in their bedlinen, underclothes, and uniforms all these months. Perhaps Henry's face _is_ warm after all. But what is it about Castor and Pollux that calls for this kind of reaction? Is this some kind of cipher Henry has been unaware of until now? 

Nevertheless, Bridgens obligingly lends him a book about Ancient myths, and then he asks, in a gentle tone, "Oh, but you can read French, can't you, sir?"

"Very badly," Henry admits. "My distant cousins write to me in it on occasion."

"Perhaps it will be enough to read this."

He hands him a book with a yellowed cover: 'Castor et Pollux' by Rameau. Henry takes it wordlessly and locks himself in his cabin to assemble the pieces of this puzzle. He understands even less. They were twin _brothers_ born of the same mother but of different fathers. In some versions they loved different women, but in the French one that he parses with marked difficulty it seems they were in love with the same one - this must be the one James alluded to, that time in Bahrain. But it's only when he sees an illustration in the French book that he begins to understand: Pollux wraps his arm around Castor's shoulders in such a possessive, loving way that it would be easy to assume they were lovers instead of brothers. Pollux defying Jove to be reunited with Castor, Pollux fighting tooth and nail to share eternity together - instead of feeling comforted by this, Henry feels only dread.

He sees himself in Pollux's fierce devotion, certainly, but he doesn't think James would go to Hell and back for him, if (when?) the worst happens. The gulf between his affection for James and the one James feels for him has never seemed wider.

Henry shuts the book briskly, and wishes he never read this. 

* * *

  
  
  


It feels like they're constantly on the verge of a fight of monumental proportions, one that Henry keeps deflecting and avoiding as James grows more and more acerbic with him. He is weary, he reminds himself, he has no time for my nagging. Henry's job is to make James's leadership easier - to snuff out conflicts between the men long before they come to his attention, to keep the provision records clean, to oversee the scientific observations. So he does just that, and not one word of reproach crosses his lips. He's increasingly tempted to give in: to have a good shout and fight it out and pin James to a wall and fuck him to oblivion. But it's only a fantasy, one he does not dare to play out for fear of being refused. 

Yet there's a respite, however brief: after Henry loses his toes, James comes to bed with him. Too groggy, he's hardly aware of what he's saying, of what they're talking about, but he craves this warmth, this closeness, and he falls asleep in James's arms wishing to never awaken and lose this precious moment. But he does awaken. He's alone in bed and in a world of pain. Bridgens is there with a cup of tea and encouraging words. If he knows James was in the cabin earlier, he does not bring it up.

After that, they dance around each other as they start planning the carnival, as if they were strangers, as if they'd never met: this sweet, foreign tension between them keeps Henry on the edge. He steals a kiss from James in the great cabin one evening, and God, how is it possible to want one man so keenly, to want to kiss him and lick him and eat all of him in a million little bites to stretch the pleasure for as long as possible? Henry ends up on his knees, quite fittingly, with a mouthful of James deep down his throat. He's so thorough in his sucking that it's all that's needed when James bends him over the table of the great cabin moments later. It knocks the breath out of him, as if he were unhorsed, when James pulls his trousers down. This is unusual enough between them that Henry has to bury his face into the crook of his arm to keep silent: James hasn't buggered him in a long, long time, and it shows. This, too, is fitting: Henry is leaving it all in his hands, relinquishing control of it all over to him until he's reduced to a whimpering mess where pain and pleasure have become indistinguishable. It's the fighting it out he longed for with none of the making up afterwards.

Later, alone in his berth, Henry feels a stupid urge to cry for the first time in years. He doesn't, evidently, but the fragility of life and death and the uncertain oscillation between love and despair leave a hollow feeling in his chest that lingers for days thereafter.

It all goes to Hell after that.

* * *

  
  
  


During the excruciating march southwards (one step, then another, repeat ad nauseum), Henry wonders when it is that he lost James, what the exact moment was when he slipped between his fingers and out of his unsteady grasp to swim away to other latitudes. 

Over and over his thoughts return to that conversation in Bahrain. He should have known then to gradually make an exit, to stay away - and he'd tried, by God he'd tried, but failed spectacularly the moment James begged. 

James came to the Arctic moved by ambition. Henry did it out of love, if his tormented feelings for James can still be called that. The more fool he.

Along with the primal, undeferrable ache for sleep and food comes a crazed need to be close to James, rendered impossible by the new circumstances in which all eyes of the camp are on them. Henry crawls inside his tent one night, in silence, like a thief in the imperfect shadows of the Arctic summer. James is awake. Without a word, he opens his arms wide and cradles Henry against him. His breath is hitched as if he were in pain. He is warm to the touch and sweaty, though he has no blanket around him but Henry. _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , Henry thinks, a bitter lullaby as fatigue overtakes him at last. Some hours later, when James wakes him to send him away before the camp rouses, Henry finds his own face is wet with tears he must have spilled in his sleep.

James collapses in his arms the next day.

His hand, however, reaches for Crozier's.

* * *

  
  


It's impossible.

Henry stares and stares at the wounds on James's body, not understanding.

"It's the same wound," he mumbles, wondering if he's hallucinating with grief or hunger, or maybe both. "The same one. The same."

The image of James, bloodied and screaming in the streets of Chinkiang is engraved indelibly in his mind, along with the brutal operation that followed. It simply isn't possible to have the same wound right there six years later. 

"I saw them," he insists. "I saw the holes being sewn shut."

Bridgens's hand on his shoulder feels unreal, too.

"It's the scurvy," the steward whispers, very gently. "Wounds reopen, apparently."

That shot nearly killed James, back then. Six years later, it's doing it again. His pained whimpers, too, sound the same.

"Well, patch them up," Henry says. "Stanley sewed them, back then. We can sew him up again."

"Sir, I'm afraid I don't have the tools or skills..."

"Bugger you to hell, then, and let me do it!" Henry shouts. "I'll do it myself! I saw how it's done!"

"Harry," James says, his voice thick with pain, speaking for the first time since he was placed in this bed. Henry's gaze darts to him. God, he can't bear the sight of tears in James's bloodshot eyes. "It's no use. It's too late for me now."

"No," Henry says. "No."

He cannot comprehend what those words are supposed to mean. Too late? For James? James is going to die? Now? Here? No, it makes no sense at all. Shaken, Henry tries to sit somewhere, but there are no chairs nearby in the tent. He sinks to the hard, cold ground and sits there then, stupefied with disbelief.

"Sir," Bridgens says, trying to get him to stand.

"Piss off," Henry growls.

He hears the footsteps retreating, but he does not look up, staring at nothing in particular on the gravelly floor. James is dying. James is going to die out here in this frigid land, with no surgeons to help, no ships to carry him to safety. They're not even halfway to warmer shores, and James is going to die. He already _saved_ James from these wounds. What kind of mockery is this?

"Dundy."

At the sound of that voice, Henry stands up in a daze and walks closer to the bed. He takes James's hand, burning with fever. The sorrow in his eyes is almost too much to bear, and yet Henry cannot tear his gaze from his.

"You're going to get well," he says, firmly. He cannot contemplate another possibility despite the evidence right before his eyes. 

"Harry, listen to me. You have to keep going. Promise me."

"I won't promise. I won't promise you that. I will promise nothing, you hear me?"

James shakes his head. His eyes seem glossier as they fill with tears. He takes a deep breath, as if he were going to speak, but the pain makes him exhale with a shaky whimper.

"Don't speak," Henry pleads. "Just rest. We'll patch you up in no time."

"You wanted to marry me," James whispers. "In Bahrain. I should have said yes, Henry. I should have said I loved you."

For once James is telling him what he's always longed to hear and that he's given up on ever hearing, but instead of the anticipated joy Henry feels only dread.

"Why are you telling me this! Don't tell me this now."

"I'm saying it... because, I regret it. Because I _do_ love you. Because if I'd said yes, none of this would have happened."

"What are you on about?" Henry hisses, terrified with this onslaught of confessions.

"I dragged... you into this expedition, do you think I don't... know? That you came because of me?"

"James, please. Stop talking. Stop."

"I've been rotten to you lately. Haven't I?"

What is Henry supposed to answer? He wants to say that yes, James has been rotten to him these past months; that he has a funny way of showing this love he claims to have: casting him aside to make way for Crozier; that if they were safely aboard or off-duty on land Henry would have snapped by now and attempted to end it all between them. But that isn't what you tell a man who is ill, is it? What if James _does_ die, and the last words Henry ever says to him are with the intent to quarrel? Oh, he'd never forgive himself, never.

"No," he says, and finds that he doesn't need to lie. "You've been... amazing. You've always been, Jamie. I wish I was enough for you."

One tear, tainted with red, falls from James's left eye. The other, from his right eye, is clear.

"You were," he whispers. "You always were. Promise me you'll go on, Harry. After I'm gone. Keep walking southward. At least one of us will... make it out of this one. And it has to be you."

Henry wants to refuse to promise, again. They were supposed to find the Passage. They were supposed to travel by land through Russia. They were supposed to sail to the warmer waters of South America and see the country where James was born. Is none of this going to happen now? Nothing at all? James is holding his hand so tightly, and his eyes are so pleading. Henry lets out a broken sob. Bizarrely, it isn't sadness that he feels, it's anger.

"What am I to do without you, hm?" he asks, hoarse, struggling to keep his voice steady. "What's there for me to do in a world without you in it?"

"To _live_. To survive."

"Not without you."

"Without me! You have to live. You have to! Promise, Harry? Promise!"

James is getting agitated, but so is Henry.

"No," he hisses. "No!"

"Enough," a voice says behind them. Henry whirls around in disbelief to find Crozier standing there, his face anguished. "You are upsetting him."

" _I'm_ upsetting him?" Henry repeats, full of venom, and the hot rush of anger burns his face. "Me? _Me_?"

"Sir, sir," Bridgens says, coming seemingly out of nowhere and grabbing Henry by the arm. He's rather strong, despite his age, strong enough to drag Henry away from James. "You aren't yourself, take a moment to collect yourself."

"Collect myself?" Henry shouts, and Bridgens pushes him out of the tent they've set up for James with shocking force.

Now outside, Henry loses his balance and lands on his back. It's true, he isn't himself at all, if Bridgens of all people managed to overpower him. He sits up, confused, more disoriented than ever. He hit his head when he fell, and he rubs it absently. Crozier stayed inside the tent. With James. The unfairness of it all suffocates him. Bridgens crouches next to him, his eyes full with pity.

"Not two months ago he punched him in the face," Henry tells him, choking with anger at the memory. "And now he's worried about him? He thinks _I'm_ upsetting him? I've known James for six years. I know him better than anyone!" His voice wavers, stupidly, and comes out rather childish when he adds, "He's mine. Mine!"

"Hush, hush," Bridgens says, his voice soothing. "Remember where you are." 

Bridgens, who _knows_ ; Bridgens, who understands. Henry stares at him, lost, and wonders with cold dread in his belly how much of that so very intimate conversation Crozier managed to hear. But then: what does it matter? What does Henry have to lose? He's about to lose _James_. Nothing else matters, not truly. Bridgens touches his knee. His gaze is kind, and Henry vaguely regrets not having befriended him before.

"Calm yourself," he insists. "Busy yourself with something, with anything. I will get you at once if he asks for you."

"He won't," Henry says, and feels like bursting into tears. "He has Crozier."

He staggers upright and walks away from the tent.

James asked him to survive.

Very well. 

Henry will survive, whatever it takes. And if he undermines the fucking drunkard in the process, all the better. 

For a brief, crazed moment, he considers deserting and joining Hickey's men.

But no, it needn't be so drastic.

Jopson is too loyal to even bother trying. But Little seems the kind of man to be easily manipulated under duress. If Henry manages to draw him away from Crozier's grip, they may yet do whatever it takes to survive. He swallows back a sob when he thinks this would be a job better suited for James and his charisma, but only Henry, hungry and half-mad, will have to suffice.

He looks for Little all over the camp. When he finally locates him, he finds him not unwilling.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Bridgens joins him at the edge of the camp shortly after midnight. He carries a lantern and a blanket that he drops over Henry's shoulders. 

"It's over," he tells him.

The words sink in but make no sense whatsoever. 

Henry doesn't move. He doesn't stand.

He thinks nothing.

"Did he ask for me?" he wonders - the lone part of him that is still functioning enough to make conversation.

"I'm sorry," Bridgens says, and it's enough of an answer. 

Henry does not react.

  
  


* * *

Henry sees the body being buried, and he still doesn't understand.

He should be crying, shouldn't he? 

Instead, he just wants it to end.

When Bridgens goes missing some days later, Henry is tempted to do the same.

But no. He was told to go southwards.

So southwards he will go.

Hungry. So hungry. 

* * *

  
  


Southward, southward, ever southward.

Fuck Crozier and fuck the ill.

It does surprise him that some of the men are drawn to him in this ordeal. What they see in him, he doesn't know. Maybe the unstoppable will to go southwards is enough. Even Little has deferred to him in all but in title.

Sometimes he wonders which of the two will be Castor and which one will be Pollux. But he's so, so hungry.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Exhausted, in pain, Henry lies down to sleep, and dreams of the sweet taste of a tangy fruit on James's lips.

  
  
  


* * *


	7. The Back Door (1842)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two young Lieutenants meet in a tavern in China, and sparks fly. (terrorbingo: first time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: First Meeting, Meet-Cute, First time, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Prostitution, Brothels, Anal Sex
> 
> The first time the Cornwallis and the Hyacinth are mentioned in the same battle is around March 14, 1842 so there you go, folks, it was our 178th anniversary some time this month :)
> 
> THANK YOU Dundy on Discord for all your help, plot unfucking and invaluable ship advice. You're the best shipper and this wouldn't have happened without you and your support!! And a super super special mention for desmyblack who has been an incredible sounding board for this pairing - and an excellent artist!!!!!!!! A million thanks for your company in these hard days ♥

* * *

Henry was down to the last sips of a piss-poor drink that passed as ale when a group of strangers entered the tavern: all in uniform, boisterous, likely fresh off the boat and looking to make merry after the latest battle. He rolled his eyes and looked away. New ships arrived every couple of weeks, carrying the same kind of men eager to fight and to distinguish themselves in the battlefield, convinced they were invaluable enough to mark a turning point in the war. But in fact, Ningpo had been theirs for months, and revelry and other distractions had begun flourishing in the occupied city. As much as the newcomers annoyed him, Henry did in fact enjoy watching them come and go. He wished he had Morris with him to engage in a bit of private mockery, but his mate did not have leave at the same time as he.

Not far from him, waiting for his turn at the counter of the tavern, stood an excellent target for his inner jeering. The young man bore himself gracefully, as if he were in the middle of a dance floor, his elegant posture contrasting markedly from that of the rest of his manlier mates. He looked as if he'd got lost on his way to a ball in Bath and ended up in a filthy tavern in China, a little disconcerted yet determined to make the most of it. Henry chuckled at the sight. Not discreetly enough: the young man turned his head and met his gaze, eyes narrowed.

Oh, shit. 

Henry choked on his ale. The young man moved closer, lips pursed in clear annoyance. The epaulettes on his uniform revealed a Lieutenant, like him. Too late, perhaps, Henry realised he very much did not feel like having a fight: he wanted to finish his bad ale in peace and enjoy this fine night with spring just at the doorstep. But never mind that.

"Something amusing, sir?" the young man asked, defiant, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Henry looked at him more closely, struck by how handsome he was. There was something ladylike in his bearing indeed, and in his long brown hair that he'd tied behind his neck with an excessively beautiful black ribbon - but everything else about his body belied this first impression: the hard line of his jaw, a firm set of shoulders, and the stocky musculature barely concealed by his uniform. Instead of making fun of him, Henry should rather take him to bed. He smiled, aware that it was too late to avoid the fight, so he decided to embrace it.

"You looked a little lost there, Pretty Boy," he said, deliberately incendiary.

To his surprise, the young man laughed, perhaps with disbelief, but he relaxed his grip on his sword. He examined Henry up and down with some kind of cocky curiosity, and seemed satisfied with whatever he saw.

"That's Lieutenant Fitzjames for you," he said, an eyebrow raised. 

"You looked a little lost there, Lieutenant Fitzjames," Henry amended without missing a beat, but keeping the same teasing little tone.

"I _am_ lost," Fitzjames said, and glanced around. "I was told this was the best place in town for a drink or two, but it rather looks like a hovel."

"You were told wrong," Henry said, still shocked this had not progressed to a fistfight. "There are better places. Quieter. With better drinks. This just happens to be the one where everyone goes."

"Oh." Fitzjames glanced around again, and then met Henry's gaze full force, knocking the breath out of him a little. "Perhaps you'd be willing to show me those places, seeing you are familiar with this town?"

"I'll show you those places if you buy me a drink."

"I'll buy you a drink if you tell me your name."

Henry licked his lips, delighted with the quick wit. "Lieutenant Le Vesconte," he said. "From the Hyacinth."

"Well, that's a mouthful. Are you a Frog?"

Henry frowned. He ought to be used by now to his foreign name being the source of confusion, and rightfully so, but it always did annoy him when people assumed he was French _now_ , especially after hearing him speak.

"I'm as English you are," he said briskly.

Fitzjames seemed startled with this comeback. His face fell, for the space of a second, and even after he composed himself he looked genuinely contrite.

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not mean to offend."

No one ever apologised for this. Henry stared at him, wondering what kind of creature Fitzjames was, sauntering into a tavern full of seamen with the grace of a girl but with a hand on his sword, ready to tease but quick to apologise.

"No offence taken. It's a common misconception, but a wearying one," Henry hurried to say. "Well. Now that we're acquainted with each other, shall we?"

"Lead the way," Fitzjames said, recovering his smile.

The chill outside was a welcome change from the warm, overly crowded tavern. The alleys in the vicinity, mostly empty this late at night, were illuminated by paper lanterns hung at the door of each house - bright enough to lead the way. 

"What ship are you from?" Henry asked as they turned into a main road with more passersby, though their uniforms meant most natives left a wide, distrustful space between them if they crossed paths.

"The Cornwallis."

"Huh. You just got here, then?"

"Two days ago," Fitzjames said. "Just in time for the battery."

"I saw that. Those were some pretty fireworks from the Cornwallis."

Fitzjames laughed. "I _know_. I was leading the assault myself."

Henry stopped walking and stared at him, impressed. In the heat of the battle, while manning the Hyacinth's rockets, he'd paused for a second to admire the deadly precision of the Cornwallis. He didn't think he'd be meeting the architect of said assault some two days letter - let alone call him a pretty boy. He regretted that, but only briefly: Fitzjames _was_ pretty, and he'd seemingly taken no offence. Henry began walking again, a little bemused, but he had no time to reassess the situation since they were already at the door of the tavern he had in mind. He'd discovered it with Morris during the long winter: while still full of soldiers, the smaller quarters meant less people, and more quiet. Perfect to sip on the local sorghum liquor removed from any soldierly rowdiness. Once inside, Fitzjames pulled out his purse and counted the coins laboriously before buying a bottle. 

"Cheers," Henry said, and clinked their glasses together.

"Ohh." Fitzjames made a satisfied sound and licked his bottom lip, distracting Henry into staring at it. "This is some excellent liquor."

"Wait until you try their chicken," Henry said and waved at the waiter to order a plate.

Fitzjames continued drinking in silence, though his eyes never really left Henry. He had a penetrating manner of looking, rarely averting his gaze and meeting his instead with refreshing frankness. He seemed curious about him, if anything. Henry wished with a pang he were more interesting.

"Where were you stationed before?" he asked, because he knew from experience that the only way to draw attention away from oneself was to make the other talk.

Fitzjames let out a chuckle. "Well, how long do you have?"

"As long as this bottle lasts, I suppose," Henry said, and hit it with the bottom of his glass.

He spent the next twenty minutes listening to the most improbable tale, complete with kidnappings, deserts, Bedouins, dysentery, and bloodthirsty Egyptians. It would have been enough to fill two or three novels, and yet Fitzjames wove the tales together with little effort - putting himself at the centre of the action, evidently, but with such candour Henry half-believed him. He liked talking about himself in flattering terms, that was clear, but he did it with genuine charm and no obnoxious vanity. By the time the chicken was brought to the table, Henry just had to shake his head.

"Hmm. I think you're fibbing," he said as he attacked a piece of chicken; he really did love the sauce they coated them with. "No one goes through so much and lives to tell the tale."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"What if I were?"

"You've called me a liar _and_ a pretty boy in scarcely an hour. I think I may feel compelled to challenge you to a duel."

"Mm," Henry said, and lowered his voice to the tone he reserved to get someone to bed. "Maybe later."

To his delight, Fitzjames raised one eyebrow and smirked. Perhaps it was an artifact of the poor lighting of the place, but it seemed to Henry that his cheeks coloured a bit. 

"What about you, then?" he asked, before taking a bite of chicken. He seemed to like it as much as Henry. "You've been here long? Were you there when Canton was taken?"

"I was!" Henry said, relieved that he at least had something exciting to tell.

He could not, of course, make his own tale as interesting as Fitzjames, but he had a wealth of information for anyone interested in naval combat or in the progress of the war in the past year. Fitzjames helped him along, asking questions to keep him going. He seemed impressed when Henry was done, which felt far more gratifying than it should have - and a little flattering, too. 

"Mind if I have the last bite?" Fitzjames asked. The chicken was all but gone by then. "This is really good."

Henry couldn't answer _yes_ , could he? "No," he said and watched him eat the last piece a little mournfully. "This is one of the best places for chicken," he added, both to console himself and to keep the conversation going. "There's one across town that does a very fine pork."

"Ah, you'll have to take me there too," Fitzjames said when he finished chewing. "What about drinks? I'm rather fond of this liquor, but what else is there?"

"There's one made with rice that's very fine too. Don't bother with ale. It may be cheap but it's universally disgusting."

"Duly noted." Fitzjames leaned closer. "What a stroke of luck that I found you as a guide. And on my first night out, imagine that."

Henry smirked. "Luck works in funny ways," he said.

Fitzjames leaned back and refilled his glass. He stared at the liquor as he twirled the glass, and then glanced up at Henry.

"What about women?" he asked, tilting his head.

"What about them?"

"I suppose you're also well acquainted with the best places for that in town. Aren't you?"

"Ah." Henry winked at him. "Of course. There's a nice clean place two streets over. That one is my favourite."

"Ugh," Fitzjames said with marked disgust. "I do hate having to pay. Seducing someone freely is infinitely more rewarding."

Henry licked his lips. "Is it, now?"

"Oh, yes." It was fascinating how he held his gaze, so brazen, so defiant. 

"It can be a dangerous game," Henry said calmly. He wouldn't let him see how much he wanted him already. Not yet. Not until he was sure...

"Think how dull our lives would be without some danger in them, Le Vesconte."

"Quite," he said, affable. "But I so happen to enjoy danger in moderation."

"Only in moderation? Forgive me for being a little disappointed."

"Don't be. You'll find I'm easily swayed." Henry smiled at him. "Well. How about we see what kind of danger we might find two streets over?"

Fitzjames looked confused, crestfallen, and then ashamed in quick succession. "Ah," he said. "It isn't purely a philosophical objection. I'm afraid I haven't a penny left, not after this bottle. We've just docked, we've not yet been paid..."

"I'm flattered you spent your last penny on me." Henry was the one leaning closer now, abominably close, and Fitzjames looked squarely at his lips. "I think I can return the favour. Just for tonight."

"Just for tonight," he repeated, and when Henry rose he followed him along.

  
  


* * *

  
  


James had visited sufficient countries to know one could learn a great deal about a new land in a brothel. In the seedier ones, about how low people were willing to sink for gratification, and in the most expensive and distinguished ones, the extent of the hypocrisy of the elite. The one Le Vesconte had chosen to show him did not fall on either side of that spectrum: it was clean, unpretentious, and orderly. Quite down-to-earth. Perhaps that was more a reflection of Le Vesconte's temperament, which made him feel more at ease, especially since he had to shamefully let him pay the entrance fee for both. But what struck James as interesting was the layout of the establishment, furnished like a tea-house and with some kind of communal room where men and women mingled and conversed quite casually - in no particular hurry to pet each other and more interested in their... teas? And flutes? Everyone seemed in a very mellow mood, in fact.

"Good God, are they really having tea?" he asked Le Vesconte, keeping his voice low, which meant pressing close to him to speak.

His newfound guide chuckled. "They are. It's a local custom. Would you like to drink some?"

"I did not come here for tea," James said, bemused. 

He disliked this foreign sensation of standing there, ignorant like an awkward schoolboy at his first ball. A solicitous hostess came near them, but Le Vesconte dismissed her politely.

"It's quite tasty, their tea," he said, turning towards James. "More fragrant than in England. I can ask for a pot if you change your mind. They also have opium on request."

"Opium? You're joking."

"Why would I be? The thing's more common than beer around here. That's what those long pipes are for."

"Opium. The thing we came to war for."

Le Vesconte laughed again. "Yes, Fitzjames, _opium_ ," he insisted, drawing out the 'o' more than was necessary to make fun of him. James elbowed him in the ribs.

"Well, fuck me, I'd like to try some. See what the bloody fuss is all about."

"Mm. Some other time, maybe. It'll make you sleepy. I don't think you came here to sleep. Did you?"

Le Vesconte leaned closer to him. That smirk on his lips was most distracting. There was a rugged handsomeness to him, a mix of nonchalance and confidence that made him quite attractive. James held his gaze for a moment, then pointedly glanced down at his mouth. 

"I did not," he answered, hoping his intent was clear.

He thought for a wild moment that Le Vesconte would kiss him right then and there, in front of everyone, but something made him visibly hesitate. He took a step back, leaving James longing for more.

"Do you still want to get a girl?" he asked. He sounded embarrassed.

James wasn't looking to get into bed with a woman, not precisely. Still, he asked, intrigued by the phrasing, " _A_ girl? As in, just one? For both?"

"I don't know," Le Vesconte said. He seemed to have lost some of his aplomb.

"How would that work?" James teased just for the hell of it. "I take the front, you take the back door?"

"The back door." Le Vesconte let out a short laugh at this phrasing. "Is that a particular door you are familiar with?"

"Oh, quite. For giving _and_ receiving," James said, impishly, and saw with great satisfaction that Le Vesconte's smirk returned.

"Mmm. Maybe we won't need a girl after all," he said and his arm slid across James's shoulders with thrilling firmness.

"Maybe not," James said.

A long hallway, removed from the common room, gave way to a series of smaller chambers. James followed Le Vesconte, who seemed to know his way around the place. Unbothered, they walked through the first open door in the hallway, ending up in a small room - rather bare in decorations, but clean. A low table, likely intended for tea, had an unlit little lamp in its centre. For the opium, James guessed, though that oil might come in handy later. Instead of a bed, some manner of tall sofa was pushed against the wall, not unlike a berth on a ship. The elaborate pattern on the cushions was fascinating. James distracted himself with that, not looking at Le Vesconte until it was unavoidable. He turned, then: the other man was leaning casually against one of the walls, watching him. He'd already unbuttoned the top of his coat and of the shirt underneath, leaving his long neck bared, exposed. Alluring.

"Are we having our little duel now?" Le Vesconte asked, his tone suave and sly.

James cocked his head, daring him to come closer, and said, "I think we might be."

One could learn a great deal, too, about the way a man kissed: what kind of lover he would be, how much passion he concealed, how uninhibited he'd grown to participate in forbidden liaisons. James felt a thrill down his back as Le Vesconte joined him where he stood - exceedingly close without touching him, the warmth of his body rolling off from him. He licked his lips in anticipation, but Le Vesconte seemed to have all the time in the world, just standing there close to James, nose to nose, staring at his mouth but making no move to kiss him. James was not a particularly patient man: after a few frustrating seconds of this tease, he took a step forward, grabbed the sides of Le Vesconte's face, and kissed him himself.

It shocked him at once how eagerly he kissed back; no, not eagerly: with firmness and abandon, and so thoroughly that James felt disarmed at once. Lost in the kiss, he was never aware of the moment he gave in to him, but all of sudden he found himself pinned up against the wall, panting, on the verge of begging for more, and already aroused.

"Undress for me?" Le Vesconte whispered against his lips. A lovely strand of his black hair had become undone during the kiss, falling onto his forehead with something of an artistic flourish.

"Undress me yourself," James said, arching an eyebrow.

"And do as I please with you?"

"That remains to be seen," he said to keep some dignity, though he was burning to answer, _yes, yes, do as you please with me._

Le Vesconte started undoing the buttons of James's coat with the same infuriating slowness, but he then yanked it open with some force, ridding him of it with a much more satisfying expediency. Instead of removing his shirt next, his hand flew to the fastening of James's trousers, and he left it there, slipping in just one teasing finger that burned against his belly.

"What's your Christian name?" he asked.

"Why?"

"I would like to know it if I'm to touch your prick." 

"It's James," he said, a little annoyed, and waited for the inevitable snicker at the ridiculous alliteration.

But Le Vesconte only said, "James," and pulled his trousers down to cup him whole with his hand.

James gasped and bucked against him, before managing to ask, "And yours?"

"Henry," Le Vesconte said, and kissed him again.

The firm grip on his prick had him hardening in no time, more so when James realised Henry was using his teeth to kiss him: he nibbled down on his bottom lip, hard enough to bring some pain and keep him expectant and on edge even as he frigged him. He moved his hand in a steady rhythm, up and down the shaft, gently handling the foreskin until he was able to pull it all the way back and tease the tip of James's cock with his thumb. Only then did he pull back to look at him - his gaze had a hungry glint that made James harden more. 

"Come to bed," Le Vesconte asked, wavering between commanding and pleading, and James nodded as if in a daze.

He finished undressing swiftly: he still had his boots on, so he removed them with some effort and kicked off his trousers and drawers. He slid his shirt off as well and then stood by the sofa, naked and expectant, while Henry retrieved the oil receptacle from underneath the unlit lamp of the tea table. Their gazes met then, and Le Vesconte began undressing with the same poise James had so admired before: he knew he was wanted, and his gestures reflected both perfect calm and barely contained arousal. He was hard when he slipped his underclothes down. 

James licked his lips as he glanced down at Henry's cock, comparing it with his own as he usually did, and finding it most satisfactory: stiff, reddened at the tip, it stood long and thin, well-matched to his limbs and his wiry body. But when Le Vesconte moved closer, intent like a leopard approaching his prey, James refused to let himself be manhandled into bed. He resisted him a little, enough to have him relent in confusion, and he used that surprise to throw Henry on the sofa, and to slide on top of him.

"Oh hoh," Le Vesconte said, hoarsely, sounding delighted with the situation.

James grinned at him and rolled his hips downwards to keep him pinned to the berth. "Not the pretty boy you were expecting?"

He made sure that their pricks were rubbing together. Henry slipped a hand between them to hold them both and give themselves a joined tug. 

"I don't know what I was expecting," he said. "But I'm liking it so far."

While clearly comfortable with his body, Le Vesconte struck him as a rather straightforward man: if he were to bugger James, he'd likely bend him over something or fuck him against the wall. And James so happened to be in the mood for something else. He let the mutual frigging go on for a bit longer; Henry was a leaker, his eager wetness giving the jerks a smoother sensation. Then James slid further up and lowered himself onto Le Vesconte's cock - and loved the way he gasped. 

"You're a bit of a wild one, aren't you?" Henry asked, an eyebrow arched in wonder.

"Just a bit," James said, and reached for the oil.

Most men glanced down to watch the penetration itself, or closed their eyes, or looked to the side. But Henry kept his gaze on James's face even as he began riding him, staring up at him with what could only be described as fascination. James, already worked up, felt himself flushing even more under his gaze: he craved being _seen_ , being looked at like this. He reached up to undo the ribbon that held his hair together, letting it spill down between them. Le Vesconte gasped again, and reached down to grab James's hips and make him sink deeper on him.

He demanded a much quicker pace, one James could barely keep up with, and in no time he was left panting and gasping while Henry held him down with the firmest of grips. Only then did he notice that Le Vesconte was smiling up at him. James grinned back, charmed with this wordless acknowledgement that this was _fun_ , that he was enjoying this as much as he was. Piqued, invigorated, he lost himself in the frantic pace of their lovemaking, using his hands to pin Henry's shoulders down onto the cushions so hard it might leave a bruise or two.

Later, when it was finished, James's seed ended up all over Henry's torso, making a mess on the slight fuzz of his chest. And Le Vesconte reached down and smeared his fingers in it, then brought them up to his mouth to lick them with gusto, as if it were the filthiest of delicacies - never breaking eye contact with him. _Oh_ , James thought, fascinated in turn, _I think I should keep this one_.

(And he did.)

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
